It's Not Life Without You In It
by estychan
Summary: When Sherlock returns to 221B, it becomes harder for John to keep his feelings for the consulting detective a secret. Little does Sherlock know that this attraction is not the only thing John is hiding from him. Post-Reichenbach. M/M.
1. The Return

**Originally uploaded on Archive Of Our Own on November 22, 2012.**

**A/N: Hi, everyone! :) I've been submitting my fanfictions mostly to AO3 lately since I find it a lot easier to use, but I figured it wouldn't be fair for people following my work on here to not get anything from me anymore, so I've decided to upload my fanfics to both sites. Please read and review! ^_^**

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John Watson found himself waking in a fright for what seemed to be the millionth time. He sat up in bed and inhaled shakily, looking out the darkened window of his bedroom. Every month on the same night, John always had the same nightmare.

_A tall figure standing on a rooftop, the edges of his long coat fluttering in a light wind. Then, he was falling, down and down… John ran to see, a pool of blood spreading across the sidewalk from the man's head. The man's blue eyes were wide open, blood trailing across the pale skin as unseeing eyes stared into John's._

"Sherlock," John murmured, his lip trembling slightly as he spoke. It had been nearly three years since John watched the great Sherlock Holmes plunge to his death from the roof of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital; three years since the nightmares began. In spite of how much time had passed, the wound felt as fresh in his mind as it had that day he first stood over Sherlock's grave.

John wasn't even aware of the fact that he was weeping anymore. He cried a lot nowadays, but the repeated occurrence ensured that he was numb to the sensation of tears falling down his face. His life felt so empty before he met Sherlock, and now again. He wanted his friend back. He _needed_ his friend back. There were so many things that had gone unsaid, and now he would never again get the chance to say them.

John heard footsteps coming up the stairs to 221B a few minutes later and he sighed, assuming it was Mrs. Hudson checking on him. She always checked in whenever he had the recurring nightmare, since his waking from it always involved a great deal of screaming on his part. Even after Sherlock's death, John hadn't been able to persuade himself to move out of the flat. There were many memories in this place, and no matter how much pain they caused him now, he couldn't give them up.

"I'm alright, Mrs. Hudson," John called from the bedroom, hastily wiping at his eyes to get rid of the tears. "I'll just make myself some tea and I'll be right as rain." He got up to make his way downstairs and into the kitchen to get some water boiling for tea, but he barely made it through the entrance to the living room before he stopped short.

Sherlock was standing in the center of 221B, hair and clothes soaking wet and dripping water onto the floor. There were dark circles under his eyes, signifying that he hadn't slept in at least two days.

"S-Sherlock?" John stammered, hardly able to believe his eyes. He had to still be dreaming. That was the only explanation, wasn't it? How else could Sherlock possibly be standing less than ten feet away from him?

"I don't understand. I… I saw you jump! I saw you lying on the pavement in a pool of blood. You had no pulse!"

"I know," Sherlock said simply. He sounded so tired. "It's about time I explain everything to you, I think… I owe you that much. Go on and make some tea; I'm not going anywhere." John had missed that deep, rich voice so very much. He laughed, but it was a pained and forced sound.

"Right… Sure, yeah. Have, uh… have a seat, then." Sherlock did just that and watched as John walked into the kitchen. The doctor was clearly shaken by his sudden appearance; Sherlock had expected as much. He sat quietly and watched as John started brewing tea for the two of them.

A short while later, John brought two cups of freshly-brewed tea out of the kitchen and handed one to Sherlock before sitting across from him in his armchair. He swallowed heavily and frowned at the taller man, silently demanding an explanation.

Sherlock took a small sip of tea, a thoughtful frown on his face. Soon, his explanation began.

Sherlock's explanation was a very long one, and even though he touched upon everything and answered any questions John had, more kept coming to mind and he felt the need for more and more answers.

"Right, so… is there anything else I should know about any of this?" John asked, frowning and setting his now-empty teacup on the coffee table.

Sherlock averted his gaze to the floor and frowned, his brow knitted together in a troubled expression. He said nothing, and that sent up a red flag in John's mind.

"Sherlock?"

"The day you came to visit my grave with Mrs. Hudson, I was there in the cemetery. I heard everything," Sherlock said a few minutes later, finally turning his gaze back to John's face. "You said no one would ever be able to convince you that I told you a lie. What did you mean by that?"

"The last time I talked to you, you told me you were a fake," John said with a calmness that surprising even to the doctor, himself. "You told me that you'd researched me prior to meeting me for the first time, getting every scrap of information about me that you could in order to impress me. I know that's not what happened, so no matter how many people made you out to be a fake, I couldn't believe them. I couldn't believe you when you said it was all a magic trick."

"You couldn't, or you wouldn't?"

"_Jesus_, Sherlock, what the hell does it matter?" John snapped.

"It matters because of what else I heard and saw in the cemetery that day. You said you wanted one more miracle, for me to not be dead. You wanted me to stop being dead, for you. You _cried _for me, John. You cared."

"Of course I did." John's throat felt tight, but he kept going nonetheless. "I saw my best friend dead on the sidewalk, bloodied. I had to live with the fact that I didn't do anything to stop you."

"There was nothing you could have—"

"Do you remember the last thing I called you before you 'died,' Sherlock? I called you a machine. I… I knew it wasn't true, yet I said it anyway. It was cruel, and I intended to apologize for it after I made sure Mrs. Hudson would be alright. But I never got the chance before you… I thought you died thinking I hated you, and that wasn't the case." John was only vaguely aware of the tears starting to roll down his cheeks, of the stinging sensation behind his eyes. He was so used to crying nowadays that he was only dimly aware of it now.

Sherlock's expression was a bewildered one once John started crying. _He cried for me at the cemetery, too._ He felt an urge to pull the broken, distraught man into his arms so that he could feel just how real he was, that he really was still alive and not a figment of his imagination, but would it do any good or would it simply make John cry more?

"That wasn't the last thing you said to me, though," Sherlock stated quietly, a faint smile on his face and a light shimmer in his eyes. "Don't you remember?"

"W-what…?"

"The last thing you said was, 'he's my friend.'" He barked out a short laugh, and it was riddled with pain. "You know, I had hoped that phone call on the rooftop _would_ make you hate me. I had hoped you would absorb my lies and believe that I was a fake, but I felt how your hand shook as you took my pulse and it dawned on you that I really was gone. You didn't hate me in my last moments… and because of that, you were hurt more deeply by all of this than anyone else."

Sherlock's lower lip quivered slightly as he spoke, a rare glimpse of true emotion in his eyes that John couldn't remember ever seeing before. When John opened his mouth to speak, Sherlock held up a hand to silence him. "You can say you're fine all you want, John; it won't make the words true. I can read you like an open book. I've always been able to. You're crying and shaking. You're thinner than I remember, which means you haven't been taking very good care of yourself lately. There are dark circles under your eyes from lack of sleep, and your eyes are a bit red which means that besides this very moment, you have been crying an awful lot lately. Anyone else would have been able to move on with their lives and get over this sort of trauma in about a year, perhaps a year and six months, but you… The image of me lying dead has haunted you for _three whole years_, and that was exactly what I hoped wouldn't happen."

A single tear fell down Sherlock's cheek, and it didn't escape John's attention. His eyes widened at the rare sight of Sherlock crying, in shock. "Sherlock…" He truly didn't know how to react to this. What should he do? His first instinct was to get up and cross over to Sherlock's chair, enfolding him in his arms and holding him close. The detective was still wet from the rain, but John didn't care about that at the moment. All he cared about was stopping those disconcerting tears from marring the cheeks of this man, whom he loved with every fiber of his being.

_Love_. Yes, that was what this was, wasn't it? His therapist had been trying to pry it out of him for months before he finally just stopped seeing her altogether. No one but Sherlock was meant to be the first to hear those words from his lips. A couple of times, upon visiting Sherlock's grave to leave flowers, he had begun to utter that simple phrase but stopped himself before he could say it. What would be the point in confessing to a cold, hard piece of granite that could neither return the sentiment nor list in alphabetical order all the reasons the sentiment was misplaced?

Sherlock automatically went tense in John's arms for a few moments: a normal, physiological reaction for him where unexpected touching was concerned. Unexpected but, surprisingly, not _unwanted_. After the initial surprise wore off, Sherlock's arms slithered around John and held him closer so that the warmth of the doctor's body was able to seep somewhat through his wet clothes. He nestled his face against the soft fabric of John's sweatshirt, his tears getting caught on the small fibers and leaving small, dark smears of moisture in their wake.

"I can't expect you to forgive me for not contacting you at all these past three years," he mumbled finally, his voice sounding a bit forced. "But even if you can't, I just want you to know that everything I did, it… it was only to keep you out of harm's way."

"I know."

"And Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson…"

"I know."

Sherlock fell silent then, slowly but surely calming until the tears stopped falling. The shaking didn't stop, though, and that was due mostly to the fact that he still wasn't dry. Smiling faintly, John slowly pulled away and settled for simply resting his hands on his shoulders.

"You're soaked to the bone, Sherlock. You ought to take a nice, hot shower and warm yourself up, otherwise you really _will_ catch your death."

"I've never been sick in my life," Sherlock said simply, quirking an eyebrow at the incredulous doctor.

"Even so, it would make me feel loads better."

Eventually, Sherlock agreed and disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of the shower starting up a minute later. Reassured that Sherlock was sorted, John smiled faintly and lay down on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling thoughtfully. Over time, as the hour became later and John's eyelids became heavier, the soothing sound of the shower running gradually lulled John to sleep.

His last thought before closing his eyes: _Come morning, please let him still be here._


	2. The Suggestion

Sherlock's first night back at 221B was his first good night of sleep in almost four days. Upon waking the following morning around eleven o'clock, Sherlock even snuggled deeper under the plain white duvet on his bed and showed clear disdain for the mere idea of getting out from under the covers. It was very uncharacteristic of him, but then, he had actually missed his bed. The sheets and pillowcases smelled clean and well-laundered, yet familiar: it was the detergent John always used.

Before settling in to sleep during the wee hours of the morning, Sherlock had taken a few minutes to look around his room. Everything was exactly as he'd left it, but nothing had a single speck of dust on it. John had taken great pains to ensure everything was in order even though he had been led to believe until last night that Sherlock would never be coming back. But now he _was_ back, and this time, he would remain. This was home… and while John was there, it always would be.

A short while later, Sherlock heard the sound of his bedroom door opening. Still curled up tightly under the blankets, he glanced over his shoulder to see John peeking in at him. He quirked an eyebrow at him questioningly.

"Sorry," John muttered, smiling sheepishly and running a hand through his uncombed hair as he stood uncomfortably in the doorway. "I just wanted to make sure you were still here and that, you know… seeing you again this morning wasn't a figment of my imagination."

"Oh." Sherlock finally brought himself to sit upright and stretched, wincing faintly as his weary muscles were slowly but surely brought back to working order. "I can assure you that I'm really here, John. I can't remember you ever questioning the evidence of your own eyes; it's very uncharacteristic of you."

The silence that fell between them was thick and uncomfortable, but thankfully it only lasted for a couple of minutes.

"A couple of years ago, there was a period of a few months where I thought I kept seeing you around the flat, usually after a few drinks," John stated warily. "I would see you at the kitchen table setting up lab equipment, standing at the window playing your violin, everything you normally do. It scared me at first, but eventually I got used to the 'ghosts,' so to speak, and tried to ignore they were there. After a while, I stopped seeing them."

The doctor smiled tightly, but it didn't reach his eyes for once. His smiles were always so genuine, but this one…

"You didn't want them to go away, did you?" John wasn't much of a drinker, so the knowledge that he would start seeing things after having a few drinks was alarming to Sherlock. If it only happened when John had been drinking and the hallucinations happened over a period of several months, then it stood to reason that he indulged in alcohol far more than he should have during that time. _A coping mechanism._

"No, I didn't," John admitted. "Even if I knew the apparitions weren't real, it felt good to see you again. After a few months of that, Lestrade eventually came to me and told me that I was only hurting myself by letting it continue, so I gave up the booze."

"Lestrade knew about the hallucinations?"

"Yes. He's been a great friend to me over the past few years, Sherlock. He's done a good job keeping me sane." John chuckled softly and glanced at the clock on Sherlock's bedside table for a moment. "Damn, almost noon already. Thank God I don't have to work until 2:30 today. Want some breakfast?"

Sherlock considered the offer for a minute before nodding and pushing the blankets off himself, getting up and putting on his favorite robe. "Yes. Some toast with raspberry jam, if you have it… and some black coffee with two, no, _three_ sugars."

"Just toast? I could make a fry-up for you if you want it: I went shopping just the other day, so the fridge and cabinets are stocked."

"A fry-up would be fine, yes." Sherlock followed John out to the living room and walked over to where his violin rested on the small table by his chair, smiling as he traced his fingers along the smooth wood. "You took great care to keep everything exactly as it was before I left."

John's face flushed a bit with embarrassment. "Er, yes… It's silly, I know, but for some reason it helped keep me sane. I guess in some ways, I tried convincing myself you were only on a really long vacation and that you would want everything as you left it once you came back."

"Very silly," Sherlock corrected. "But I appreciate it… Thank you." He picked up the instrument and the bow, playing a soft, slow tune just to test out the sound of the strings. They still sounded pretty good, especially taking into consideration the instrument had gone un-played for three whole years. Unfortunately, he hadn't taken into account the fact that Mrs. Hudson was right downstairs and was as yet unaware of his being alive.

It wasn't long before footsteps came hurrying up the stairs to their flat and a shocked Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, one hand over her heart. Sherlock lowered the violin from its position under his chin, smiling slightly at Mrs. Hudson. "It's good to see you again. You… you look well."

"You cruel, _cruel_ man!" cried the elderly woman, hurrying toward Sherlock and pulling him into a tight hug. "Three years, Sherlock! How could you?"

The next half hour or so were spent explaining to Mrs. Hudson what he had to John earlier that morning, pausing only to thank John for breakfast once it was set in front of him. When he was finished and had mentioned doing what he did only to ensure that Mrs. Hudson remained safe, the elderly landlady seemed to relax considerably and even had a smile on her face.

"Well, if that's why you did it, I suppose I can understand. If you're going to continue living here as before, I expect you to pay your half of the rent, young man. Poor John has been working so many hours at the surgery just to be able to continue living here."

Sherlock frowned at her. "You couldn't just lower the rent for him?"

"Well, I did, but I could only lower it so much…"

"It's fine, Sherlock. Really. I mean, I was able to manage on my own for three years, wasn't I? Mrs. Hudson lowering my rent even as much as she did was a lot to ask," John stated in an attempt to reassure him. "Besides, you're back now. I won't have to pay the rent by myself anymore."

Mrs. Hudson excused herself then, but only after making it perfectly clear to Sherlock that she was happy about his returning to Baker Street. She had become almost like a second mother to him during the time he had been living there with John, so he was all too happy to see her again as well, even though he wasn't very good at showing it.

"So," John started after a few minutes of silence, during which they were able to finish their fry-ups, "who else still doesn't know you're back?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock replied after swallowing some bacon. "And everyone else at the Yard."

"Right." John sighed and set his empty plate on the coffee table, leaning slightly toward Sherlock and frowning at him. "He's going to be pissed."

"Obviously."

"He went through a lot after that whole incident. The media tried so hard to rip him apart and ruin his career… They're off his back now, more or less, but it's still been really hard for him."

Sherlock dreaded going to see the Detective Inspector, honestly. Lestrade was one of the few people whose authority he would ever take into consideration and imagining all of the yelling and cursing that would undoubtedly be sent his way was giving him a headache. He drained his cup of coffee and set the cup down with his plate, frowning.

"He'll listen to what I have to say, I know he will… but it is going to be hard getting his trust back after all that. Maybe with you there—"

"You're going alone."

Sherlock's heart sunk. "And why is that?"

"Because this is something you and Lestrade need to settle on your own, and there is the fact that I'm scheduled to work at the surgery from 2:30 to six this evening." John smiled faintly and got up, grabbing his and Sherlock's dirty dishes and carrying them out to the kitchen. "You're the great Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and a right pain in my arse. I'm sure you'll do just fine dealing with a bent-out-of-shape policeman."

Lestrade reacted pretty much how Sherlock expected.

While he was in a cab on the way to the Yard, he sent the man a very concise text message: _"I'm alive. Will be at the Yard in fifteen minutes. —SH."_

Thirty seconds later, his phone rang and he answered it very promptly. Upon hearing his voice on the other end of the line, Lestrade was in complete and utter shock. He thought the text message had been a prank of some sort, meant to get him all riled up, but it was actually him and he had no idea how to react other than to yell at him over the phone.

"_Fucking hell, Sherlock, do you have any idea how difficult these past three years have been?_" came the very angry, gruff voice. The familiarity of it nearly made Sherlock smile. "_I had journalists breathing down my neck every fucking day for _six months_! Does that mean anything to you?"_

"I understand that you're upset, Lestrade, but I promise I will explain everything once I get there. You're still at the Yard, yes? Your ridiculous hours can't have changed too much in three years."

A sigh. "_Yeah, I'm still here… Your explanation better be a damned good one, Sherlock, after all you put me through."_

"It should suffice. I'll see you soon."

Sherlock arrived at the Yard within ten minutes of hanging up. Getting out of the cab, he made his way through the front doors and was immediately apprehended by Sergeant Sally Donovan. She looked positively livid, her dark curls still as shaggy about her shoulders and face as ever and her heel tapping irritably against the tile floor. Sherlock fixed her with a calm expression, hands in his coat pockets as he waited patiently for him to let him through.

"I should have you arrested right here for fraud," she said coldly to him after several more seconds of silence.

"Oh, you would love that, wouldn't you? Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be seeing Lestrade now." He moved to step around her, but she moved with him and blocked his way yet again. He glared at her, and before he could open his mouth to make some sort of cutting remark at her expense, Lestrade approached them and thankfully intervened.

"He called me a little while ago to let me know he was coming, Donovan. I've been expecting him," he said gruffly, turning his eyes toward Sherlock. "Come on, then. You have a _lot_ of explaining to do."

And explain Sherlock did. Recounting the same tale over and over again was starting to get old, but he knew it was necessary if he was to avoid any charges of conspiracy to defraud and the like. Lestrade was a policeman: if he couldn't see his reasoning, then no one else would, either, and he could be facing some serious charges. By the time he was finished, Lestrade was in utter disbelief, yet it was impossible for him to hide his admiration. After all, Sherlock's cleverness had been enough to fool even him, a seasoned police officer with over twenty years' experience. He ran a hand through his graying hair and huffed out a heavy sigh, shaking his head.

"Wow. So… snipers, eh?"

"Yes. One trained on you, one on Mrs. Hudson, and one on John. Unless Moriarty's men saw me jump that day, you would have gotten a bullet between your eyes."

"Bloody hell, what a mess… So, I don't suppose you've got any proof, then? If I'm to give a press conference stating that you're really alive, I need some concrete evidence to support everything you just told me."

"I do have evidence, and quite a lot of it. Well, actually, my brother does. But he made it clear to me before returning here that if you had need of the file, he would have it sent right over for you to look through. Shall I text him and let him know that will be necessary?"

"Please do."

Sherlock tapped out a quick message for Mycroft before stowing his phone back in his pocket and getting to his feet. "John told me you looked after him while I was gone. Thank you for doing that. It's good to know someone was there for him when I couldn't be."

"Yeah, don't mention it. Listen, Sherlock…" The look on Lestrade's face was a troubled one, and it made Sherlock's chest tight with worry. With an expression like that, what he was about to say could only be bad. So, when he didn't continue his thought, Sherlock stared at him expectantly.

"You know what? Never mind… I just completely lost my train of thought." Lestrade chuckled and shrugged, but Sherlock wasn't convinced. He was acting far too secretive for someone who had simply forgotten what they were going to say. Still, maybe pushing him on the matter wouldn't be a good idea on his part; at least, not right now.

_Maybe later when he has fewer things on his mind, I'll ask him…_

"Right… Well, send me a text later, after you've read over the file. I'm sure one of Mycroft's men will get it to you today sometime."

"Will do. Hey, Sherlock…?" Sherlock had been about to leave but when the man said his name again to get his attention, he stopped. He looked over his shoulder with his hand still on the door handle, one eyebrow arched. "Make sure you spend as much time with John as you can. Don't just jump right into doing silly experiments again in your kitchen. He thought you were dead for three whole years. The least you can do is make up for some of the time you lost."

The detective considered that for a few minutes. It wasn't as though he had any cases to work on presently, and he wouldn't until after Lestrade's press conference detailing his survival and his whereabouts over the past three years, so what would be the harm in spending some much-needed time with his friend?

"That shouldn't be a problem."

"Good. I was there for him when he needed me these past few years, but… it's you he really needs right now."

Taking Lestrade's words to heart, Sherlock left.


	3. The Confession

John was aware of his coworkers at the surgery looking at him funny for the first few hours of his shift. At first, John had to wonder if he might still have some breakfast on his face that he had overlooked, but upon taking a quick detour to the lavatory after seeing his first patient of the day, he didn't see anything out of the ordinary about his appearance.

So, the next time he caught his boss and fellow doctor staring at him, he decided to question her on the matter. "Okay, seriously, why are you and everyone else staring at me today? It's starting to make me feel more than a little self-conscious."

Doctor Fields smiled kindly at John and let out a quiet laugh. She was always so kind to him, and she had done everything possible to ensure he got as many hours as he needed to get by. She was also a very good friend, so when he heard that little laugh from her, he relaxed a little bit.

"It's probably due to the fact that none of us have seen you with such a big, genuine smile on your face in… God, I don't even know how long now. So, tell me: what has you in such a good mood today?" she asked curiously, taking a sip from her pink coffee mug.

John hesitated. Would it be alright for him to tell Doctor Fields about Sherlock's return before the news was made public? She was a good friend of his so if he impressed the importance of keeping it a secret, would there be any harm done? Deciding to take a leap of faith, John sighed and decided to go for it.

"Promise you'll keep this between us for the time being?" he ventured cautiously and in low tones so no one else but Doctor Fields would hear him.

"Of course."

"Sherlock wasn't actually dead these past three years. He… he came back to Baker Street early this morning." John couldn't stop the smile from spreading across his face.

Doctor Fields gasped. "I'm happy to hear it, of course, but… that still must have come as quite a shock to you, I'm sure."

"Oh, it did. But… I'm so happy he's back. I was angry at first, knowing he lied to me for three whole years, but now I just want to do something to make up for the time we lost. I want things to go back to the way they were before."

"If that's the case, why don't you go home a little early today, John? I know you were scheduled until six, but a few of your patients canceled their appointments for this evening so I think I can afford to let you go home at 4:30 instead." She winked at him. "That way you'll have more than enough catching-up time."

John didn't know what to say. He appreciated the kind gesture, of course, but he soon felt heat creep up into his face. That wink she sent his way meant she knew. Was he really making his feelings so obvious? If Doctor Fields could see how he really felt about Sherlock, didn't it stand to reason that Sherlock himself, who was much more observant than the typical person, would be able to see it more quickly and with more surety?

_I_ _don't want him to _see_ it. I want to tell him myself. But… I don't know if I can._

Still, going home early was sounding better by the minute. So, after another minute of thought, John agreed. "Thank you, Jessie. I really appreciate it."

"No problem, John. Until then, though, you do have a few more patients, so don't clock out just yet, physically or otherwise."

Sherlock returned home from the Yard about an hour after John left for work at the surgery, which meant he was home alone until John's shift ended. He went and grabbed his laptop from the bedroom, bringing it over to the sofa and laying down with it on his lap. He clicked the bookmark that brought him to his website, checking to see if there happened to be any new forum posts from potential clients. There weren't.

"Of course there wouldn't be anything," he muttered to himself, blankly looking through his old case files. "News hasn't been out about my survival yet." How would people react when they found out he had faked his death the entire time? The story would be all over the news for weeks after Lestrade finally gave his press conference on the matter. After that, the clients would come pouring in. Ideally.

Satisfied that he had no new messages, Sherlock typed the address of John's blog into his browser on a whim and the page came up within seconds. No new entries there, either. The most recent entry—dated June 16th, 2012—made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

It read: _He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him._

He couldn't wrap his head around it. After everything he said to John that day, after how difficult he had been, how could John still put so much faith in him? The corner of his mouth twitched up into a small smile. _Because he's an idiot._

Sherlock went to a couple of fan sites and looked through them for a while, just to pass the time. He was amazed at how many threads there were entitled "I Believe in Sherlock Holmes." Apparently John's latest blog entry had struck a chord with a lot of people and he couldn't help but feel a bit proud.

"Touching, isn't it?"

Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized he was no longer alone and he looked over his shoulder to see Mycroft standing in the doorway. He rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the laptop screen, paying his brother little mind.

"What are you doing here?" he questioned without much interest.

"I had Anthea drop your file off at Detective Inspector Lestrade's office a short while ago and since I was in the car with her, I thought I would stop by and see how things are going." Mycroft invited himself into the living room and sat down in John's chair (much to Sherlock's annoyance), crossing his legs and eyeing his younger brother expectantly. "How did John take to seeing you again?"

"About as well as you'd expect," Sherlock responded calmly. "He was in shock; he was upset. After I explained everything to him about why I did what I did, he relaxed a little bit, but it's still going to take time for him to completely forgive me, I think."

"The fact that he didn't punch you the second he saw you tells me that he's more relieved than angry, Sherlock," Mycroft noted simply, tapping his fingers idly on the arm of John's armchair. "He's going to be much happier now that you're back." Mycroft paused when he heard a door open and close downstairs and he smiled. "Speak of the devil."

A few minutes later, John entered the flat and upon seeing Mycroft, he frowned. "What are you doing here?"

"I think that question could go both ways," Sherlock said while looking over at John from the sofa. "I thought you didn't get out of work until six this evening? It's barely even five o'clock."

"Doctor Fields let me come home early. A few of my patients canceled their appointments for this evening so there was no need for me to stay until six," John explained, taking off his jacket and hanging it up on the coat rack by the door. He narrowed his eyes accusingly at Mycroft. "Thanks for keeping me in the dark about Sherlock, by the way."

"Sarcasm is very unflattering on you, John," Mycroft said in that oily voice of his, getting to his feet and checking his watch. "I must be off anyway. I have some important business to attend to. Do give me a call if you need anything, Sherlock."

"I won't," Sherlock promised, keeping his eyes fixed upon his laptop screen. Sighing, Mycroft bid the two men farewell and showed himself out, making his way down the stairs and disappearing from view. John relaxed somewhat when the eldest Holmes brother left and he looked at Sherlock curiously, smiling a bit.

"What are you up to?" he asked, waiting only a few moments for an answer before going into the kitchen to put the kettle on for some tea. "Checking your website?"

"Yes, but I didn't expect there to be any new cases just yet. Not until after Lestrade's official press conference on the subject of my return."

"How did that go, by the way? Was he as pissed-off as I guessed he would be?"

"After my initial text message, yes. By the time I got to the Yard, though, he'd calmed down for the most part. Once I mentioned the snipers, he was surprisingly understanding about what I had to do. Still… I could tell he was disappointed in me for not contacting anyone sooner about my survival."

"Can't say I blame him. He _is_ one of the few people you can call your friend, Sherlock. He grieved as much as Mrs. Hudson and I, at the very least." John put the kettle on and leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, still able to see Sherlock from where he was standing. "Did he tell you when the press conference would be?"

"No. I did tell him to text me once he'd finished reading over the file though, so I'm sure he'll have more word on that topic soon enough." Sherlock fell quiet for a few minutes before looking over at John with questioning, pale-blue eyes. "I checked out your blog today, as well. You haven't posted anything in a long time."

John sighed and looked away, eyes downcast. After Sherlock had his fall, John hadn't seen the point in continuing his blog. There weren't going to be any further cases and without Sherlock, John's life was bleak and empty; _boring_. What was there to blog about: his dwindling emotional state?

"There wasn't any real point," he mumbled, trailing off.

"Because I wasn't here," Sherlock finished for him.

"Right."

"Well, you'll be able to start it up again soon enough. Actually, why not post a new entry right now?" Sherlock nodded over at John's laptop that was still sitting, untouched, on the table in the living room.

"And what the hell would I say? 'Sherlock isn't really dead, so I guess the joke's on me'?"

"Yes, aside from the bit about there being any sort of joke involved," Sherlock stated, setting his laptop aside and sitting upright on the sofa now so he could keep his eyes focused on John. "Lestrade never said we had to wait until he gave his press conference to let on that I'm alive; he only said that there would be one. People can know I'm alive, but they can't know _how_ I'm alive until then."

The kettle unleashed a loud whistle and John went to take it off the stove, fixing his tea and double checking that Sherlock didn't want any before taking a seat near his laptop. He opened it and it came to life after a few moments. He logged into his blog and started a new entry, hesitating over the keyboard. He glanced over at Sherlock with an uncertain frown.

"You're sure it's alright if I do this?"

"Yes, John. You're forgetting that I had to take a cab to the Yard today and I'm sure a lot of people saw me when I stopped in the little café down the street for some tea and a small lunch. In fact, I _know_ some people recognized me. They didn't approach me but going by how long they stared, I could tell they knew who I was."

Somewhat reassured, John started typing.

**_Update_**

_Sherlock came back. He really, truly is alive. I can't say much on the matter now, but there will likely be a press conference on it very soon. Don't ask me how he did it. You'll get all of your answers then._

John clicked the "Post" button when he was finished and that was it. Word was out now that Sherlock was alive, and the news would no doubt spread like wildfire. For better or for worse, that remained to be seen. He left his blog up on the computer screen and leaned back slightly in the chair, picking up his cup of tea and sipping at it thoughtfully. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock's mobile phone going off, but Sherlock soon answered it. From the snippets of the conversation that John was able to hear, he knew immediately that it was Lestrade he was speaking with, and he watched Sherlock expectantly throughout the call.

Sherlock hung up a minute later, setting his phone aside and getting up. "The press conference is scheduled for Monday morning, as I expected it would be."

"Three days from now? Good. The sooner, the better." Absently, John refreshed the main page of his blog and his eyes opened wide when he saw the number of comments the post had already.

_Seventy, and climbing fast,_ he mused. _Let's hope telling people like this doesn't come back to bite us._ John occupied himself with his tea for a few minutes, remaining silent and glancing at Sherlock every so often. He could still hardly believe he was back and sitting less than ten feet from him. He had missed the piercing nature of those icy blue eyes, the sharpness of those cheekbones, the delicate shape of Sherlock's lips… He had missed all of it.

"John, weren't you listening?"

John was jolted out of his thoughts by the sound of Sherlock's voice and he became aware of the somewhat dubious expression being aimed in his general direction. He smiled sheepishly.

"Sorry, just thinking… What were you saying?"

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, running a hand through his hair in an all-too-human gesture. "I asked if you wanted to get a take-away for dinner. And if you wanted to watch some crap telly with me while we eat."

Sometimes John could hardly believe this man _was_ human, so seeing him do such mundane things as combing his fingers through his hair was something he always found almost hypnotic in nature. Then Sherlock spoke, and John was in utter disbelief. He wanted to watch television with him? Well, that was… new. The offer was a tempting one though, and John's smile widened.

"Sure. That's, uh… fine."

"Problem?" So, Sherlock had heard the confusion in his tone. Of course he had. Nothing ever slipped past him.

"No, no problem. It was just unexpected, I guess. I didn't think you liked watching television. You never really used to."

"There's little else to do at the moment, if I can be perfectly honest. My lab equipment is all packed up in boxes in my bedroom, and even if I unpacked all of it, I don't have any experiments in mind so I wouldn't be using any of it."

"And your violin isn't an option either?"

"Playing the violin isn't exactly a joint activity, is it?"

John's chest tightened when Sherlock said that and he stared at him with wide, thoughtful eyes. "You… want to spend time with me?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and for a second, John could have sworn he saw a light dusting of pink across those cheekbones of his. "Why wouldn't I? You're my best friend, John, and I haven't seen you in three years. That's a lot of time to make up for, don't you think?"

John's expression softened and his eyes shimmered slightly at the surprisingly heartfelt words. Sherlock was putting real effort in earning his full forgiveness for his deception, and that knowledge meant more to him than anything else. He swallowed heavily. "Well, er… we'd better get started then." He wiped at his eyes with the heel of his palm and cleared his throat in order to prevent it from cracking when he next spoke. "Should I call for take-away?"

"I'll do it. See if you can find something even remotely decent on television." Sherlock walked over to the table and easily found a few of the menus from their favorite take-away restaurants. Picking out a menu for the Chinese restaurant a few blocks away, he dialed the number into his mobile phone and rattled off their order to the oriental woman on the other end of the line. He didn't need to ask John what he wanted; he already knew what his favorite items were on the menu. A couple of minutes later, he hung up. "She said it would be here in about half an hour."

"Great. Aside from the news, there isn't much on the telly that looks good. Ah, here we go." He grinned when he found Doctor Who on one of the stations and he set the remote aside, turning the television toward the sofa before moving to the more comfortable piece of furniture.

Sherlock voiced his distaste for the show very quickly. "Really, John? I would rather watch the news. Or one of those stupid police shows."

John frowned at him, saying nothing. Getting the hint, Sherlock sighed and sat on the couch with him. If this was what John wanted to watch, then he supposed he didn't have much of a choice. If it meant spending time with him, he would just have to tolerate it for the time being. Half an hour later, the doorbell rang downstairs (apparently Mrs. Hudson had gotten it fixed while he was away) and signaled the arrival of their dinner.

Sherlock got up to answer the door, paying the delivery boy and thanking him briefly before making his way back upstairs. He set the bag of food on the coffee table and sat back down on the sofa, opening the bag and splitting the food between the two of them according to who ordered what.

"Did I miss anything important?" he questioned.

"Not particularly. You know, even though I've seen a lot of episodes with the tenth Doctor in them, I don't think I've ever seen this one."

"I don't even know how you could possibly sit through the others."

"Oh, come off it." John chuckled quietly and started in on his food, eyes fixed upon the screen. He was surprised at how quiet Sherlock was being. Ordinarily, he would be criticizing some small aspect of whatever was on television, but tonight he was doing very well at refraining from doing so. As the episode neared its end, showing a scene with the tenth Doctor on a beach with a tearful Rose, John had to swallow a lump in his throat. He wasn't normally brought to tears by watching television shows, but this particular scene hit him hard. He understood exactly how Rose felt, saying goodbye to the Doctor before he vanished from her life forever. He felt exactly the same on _that day_, standing on the street below while Sherlock said his goodbyes. There was only one difference: Rose told the Doctor she loved him before he disappeared. John hadn't revealed his feelings to Sherlock.

John had spent three years bottling all of those emotions deep inside, but now Sherlock was here. He was right here with him, just like before. He wasn't a figment of his imagination. What was stopping him from telling Sherlock how he felt now? The answer to that question was a simple one: he feared rejection. What if Sherlock took his confession the wrong way? What if things turned awkward between them and Sherlock decided to leave 221B again just to get away from him?

"John?" He was startled out of his thoughts when he felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned to look at Sherlock, immediately taking notice of the concern furrowing his brow. Once he was looking at Sherlock directly, the too-blue eyes beneath that wrinkled brow went wide with alarm. John didn't understand why until he felt Sherlock's thumb brushing lightly across his cheek. It wasn't until then that John realized there was a steady flow of tears rolling down his cheeks. Once he was aware of it, they only seemed to flow faster and his breath rattled out of him in quiet, subdued sobs.

"John, what… what brought this on?" Sherlock asked. He glanced briefly at the screen, at the sobbing Rose Tyler, and that was when he understood. "Surely it isn't this show that upset you so much? It's only a show, John: it isn't real."

"I'm sorry," John choked out.

"For what?" Sherlock sounded genuinely confused.

"I can't keep this to myself anymore. I tried, but I… I just can't, now that I have you back." Getting up all the courage he could muster, he grabbed the collar of Sherlock's shirt and pulled him forward, crushing his lips against the stunned detective's. John held the kiss for half a minute before pulling away and forcing out a soft laugh. Sherlock hadn't kissed him back. Sherlock didn't want him. He opened his mouth to apologize again, but Sherlock pressed the tip of his index finger lightly against his lips, stopping him. The detective was watching him very closely, his eyes staring intently into his. He was aware of his free hand lightly grasping one of his wrists as well.

"Your pupils are dilated," Sherlock murmured, his fingers pressing a bit more firmly against his wrist, "and your pulse is elevated. John, are you…?"

"Yeah… I guess I am." John sniffled and made to pull away, but the more he pulled, the tighter Sherlock's grip became on his wrist as though trying to keep him there. He remained where he was.

"Say it."

"Sherlock, I—"

"Say exactly what you're thinking, John. Don't leave anything out. If you do, I'll know." Detecting a lie was a very easy thing for Sherlock, especially when he was this close to someone. People often said eyes were windows to the soul. Sherlock didn't believe in such things as souls, but one thing he knew for certain was that eyes held truth. The brain could lie easily enough; the body was another story.

John inhaled shakily and let it out slow, gazing into Sherlock's eyes.

"I'm in love with you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's hand moved to the back of John's head then and he pulled him in close, capturing his lips in a kiss that was careful but also passionate. It took John a few moments to respond, the shock slowly dimming in his mind and being overwhelmed by relief. Sherlock broke the kiss after a minute, his lips remaining close enough to John's for them to brush together but not quite kiss. No words were spoken.

They just smiled.


	4. The Truth

John should have known that revealing Sherlock's survival prematurely via his blog at the consulting detective's suggestion would bite him in the ass. The morning after posting the entry (which also happened to be the morning after Sherlock shared his bed with him in an entirely non-sexual way), his phone rang and he barely had the chance to greet Lestrade before the D.I. was nearly growling at him on the other end of the line.

"I thought we were going to wait until Monday's press conference to reveal to the public that Sherlock is alive and well?" Lestrade's voice sounded somewhat forced as though he was seriously restraining himself from screaming at John over the phone. John blearily rubbed his eyes and sat up a bit, unable to help the smile that crossed his lips when a sleepy Sherlock nestled closer to his side.

"Sherlock told me it would be alright as long as I didn't mention in the entry _how_ he is still alive and what he's been doing over the past three years," John explained. "I said all of their questions would be answered soon enough when you give your press conference and that they should wait until then."

Lestrade sighed. "John, listen… I know your intentions weren't bad ones, but you really should have warned me first. When I got to the Yard this morning, I was bombarded with phone calls from the public and the press demanding answers. I had to tell them all to wait until the press conference, and the press in particular didn't take too kindly to that."

"I'm sorry, Greg. You're right. One of us should have run it by you first before doing anything."

"Well, what's done is done. Is Sherlock there? I have to speak with him about Monday and how things are going to play out."

"He's here, but he's asleep."

"Sherlock is _sleeping_?" The genuine shock in Lestrade's voice brought a grin to John's face. Sleep had always been a very small matter where Sherlock was concerned. There were a few instances John could remember quite clearly where he had gone nearly four days without proper sleep. He would take small cat naps during that time, but even for a normal person, that wouldn't be nearly enough. How Sherlock could function with so little rest was beyond him.

"Dead to the world, the poor sod. Figuratively speaking, of course. Should I have him call you back later?" John questioned patiently, his free hand absently sliding through Sherlock's hair. The younger man hummed quietly at the contact and leaned into the touch, a tiny smile spreading across his lips as he slept on. He looked so innocent.

"Yeah, please do."

John promised he would do so and uttered a brief goodbye to Lestrade before hanging up and setting his phone aside. He turned onto his side so he could curl up against Sherlock's chest, arms wrapped around the taller man's waist. He was just starting to doze off again due to the warmth before he felt Sherlock's fingertips trailing gently along the back of his neck. He looked up into Sherlock's eyes and smiled faintly, a hint of shyness in it.

"You were awake all along, weren't you?" he asked. For someone who slept as seldom as he did, Sherlock was certainly very good at faking it.

"Of course I was."

"Then why didn't you take the phone from me and talk to Lestrade? It was obviously important."

"The answer to that is quite obvious, I'm sure."

John thought about it for a moment and grinned when he figured it out, propping himself up on one elbow so that he could look down at his… friend? Boyfriend? What were they to each other, now that their feelings were out in the open?

"You thought I would get up and leave you alone to speak with Lestrade after handing you the phone, didn't you?"

"A bit… and I would much rather you stay. You're quite warm, after all."

"You, too. But seriously, I wouldn't have gotten up and left the room if you answered the phone, Sherlock. I'm far too comfortable for that." To illustrate his point, John moved so that he was half resting on top of Sherlock, resting his face in the crook of his neck and laying a few kisses on the warm skin there.

Sherlock let out a quiet and appreciative hum, unmoving so that John wouldn't get the wrong idea and get off of him. Now that their feelings for each other were no longer secret, Sherlock felt as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Truth be told, he had felt that way for John for quite some time but being as inexperienced in affairs of the heart as he was, he hadn't been able to see it for what it really was until that day on the rooftop. Then, of course, he spent three years stewing in his own muddled emotions and trying to cope with them without actually having anyone to divulge them to.

"John," Sherlock finally said after a few minutes of comfortable silence, his voice low as though he were afraid someone other than John might hear him. "We kissed last night…"

"Well, don't sound so disappointed," John teased with a faint grin.

"Please don't interrupt, John. It's very rude."

"Sorry."

"We kissed and confessed our feelings for each other, but… what does that make us now that we have?" There was some apprehension in his baritone, as though he wasn't sure John's answer would be a positive one.

"I was wondering that, myself. 'Friends-with-benefits' sounds wrong, and 'lovers' sounds too sexual at the moment. So… 'boyfriends'?" John felt his face get hot as the word slipped out.

Sherlock considered the term for a comically long time, his brow furrowed in thought. Eventually, he gave a satisfied nod of agreement. Pleased that he would now be able to introduce Sherlock to people as more than just his best friend, John smiled shyly and leaned in to capture the detective's lips in a slow, careful kiss. Sherlock complied, closing his eyes and pressing so close to John that they may as well have been connected at the torso. John's body felt so right against his, strong but also slightly soft around the middle where some of the muscle he gained in the army had waned. Sherlock lightly grasped John's shoulders and pushed him over onto his back, carefully straddling his waist without parting their mouths for so much as a second.

Feeling the detective's weight on top of him, John hummed pleasantly. When he felt Sherlock's hips grind slightly against him though, he gasped softly against his lips and set his hands on his chest to gently push him away. He looked up at Sherlock questioningly, a little frown on his lips.

"What are you doing?" he asked, sounding confused.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Sherlock asked a bit snappishly, his expression set in a rather adorable pout. "I'm snogging."

"And frotting," John noted, blushing considerably. "I know you've never been in a relationship and this is probably exciting for you in a way—it is for me, too—but we need to take things slowly. I don't want you to do anything you're not ready for. Understand?" Sherlock rubbing against him had felt sinfully good, and his loins were already showing great interest in the prospect of more, but John didn't want them to have sex and then realize things weren't going to work out between them.

Sherlock frowned, but at the very least he seemed to understand where John was coming from. "Fine." Discouraged, he moved to get off of John but soon discovered that John had no intention of letting him get up. He quirked an eyebrow at him but when he saw the devious grin on his face, he blushed.

"That doesn't mean snogging is off-limits, you know," he said to the detective with a light laugh. Smiling, Sherlock took the hint and brought their lips together once more. No, he didn't suppose either of them would be getting out of bed any time soon.

Monday's press conference went about as well as John and Sherlock had suspected. That is, to say, not very well at all. The two had stood beside Lestrade throughout the whole affair, answering numerous questions, yet their answers never seemed to satisfy the press. Some of the questions were worded quite rudely as well, and it took everything in John's power to not tell the offenders off for those in particular. John had suspected the journalists to be outraged and scandalized by Sherlock's deception, but he hadn't expected it to be quite _this_ bad. Thankfully, there were also several journalists in the room who believed Sherlock had done a very noble thing, and those were the individuals who got the most genuine smiles returned to them.

John was very thankful when the whole affair was over and he heaved a big sigh once the room had emptied out. Lestrade cursed under his breath and turned his head to look at Sherlock and John, a tired smile on his face. John reciprocated it; Sherlock looked as bored as ever.

"That's it, then," he said gruffly. "I've done what I can, so whatever comes next is entirely up to the two of you."

Sherlock stood up and straightened out his jacket before grabbing his coat off the back of his chair and putting it on. "I believe that will be the end of it, Lestrade. I have already received several emails from potential clients that look rather promising, so at the very least, I will be kept busy."

"Well, good. Even so, I'm sure you have made a few enemies with that stunt you pulled, so watch your back. The last thing we need is another Jim Moriarty running around blowing things up just to get your attention."

"Oh, that's bound to happen anyway," Sherlock responded with an inappropriately calm air about him. "There is no shortage of criminal masterminds, Lestrade. As it so happens, I have one keeping an eye on things to make sure they don't go sideways without warning."

When Lestrade fixed him with an obviously confused stare, Sherlock rolled his eyes and glanced at an amused John before elaborating. "My brother."

"Mycroft is a government official. How does that make him a—"

When Lestrade saw that John's shoulders were shaking a bit with the effort it was taking to hold back any laughter that threatened to slip out, that was when he understood. Mycroft had bent the law in Sherlock's favor several times in the past but because of his standing, he was able to get away with it. He had even assisted Sherlock in faking his own death, which would land anyone else a hefty sentence. Lestrade generally didn't trust the government as a rule, especially when they took it upon themselves to pry into official police business, but in Mycroft's case, he would tolerate it. He was Sherlock's brother, after all, and Mycroft had done him far more favors than any other government dog had ever done.

"Right. Well, run along then, you two. If any big cases come up on my end, I'll see if I can't let you in to have a look."

"Thank you," Sherlock said with surprising sincerity. He set a hand on John's shoulder and they left, making their way out of the police station and walking down the sidewalk a ways to hopefully hail a cab back to Baker Street.

"Thank God that's over with," John said with a smile. "I think everything's going to be alright from now on, Sherlock. You've told everyone the truth about what happened and where you have been all this time, so that has to count for something."

"How idealistic of you, John," Sherlock commented calmly. He managed to flag down a cab and got in, giving the cabbie their Baker Street address and relaxing as they pulled away from the curb. He was rather looking forward to going home and starting in earnest on his new experiment. Molly had sent him over a couple of specimens from Bart's and he was quite looking forward to busying himself with them until an interesting case came up. There were a few lined up on his website, as he had mentioned to Lestrade, but he wanted to wait a little longer and see if something more interesting didn't come up before even bothering with them.

When they got out of the cab outside of 221B, Sherlock paid the cabbie and made his way toward the door. John didn't follow him inside right away, pausing on the doorstep when he heard his mobile phone going off. It was still a new ringtone, but he recalled setting it as Lestrade's a few months prior. He swallowed a lump in his throat when Sherlock turned his head to look at him, his eyebrows raised slightly with curiosity.

"Are you coming, John?"

"I'll be up in a minute, Sherlock." John, to his credit, was able to smile easily and keep his voice even. Nothing was wrong. Lestrade was only calling because he forgot to mention something to him before he and Sherlock left. That was all… Right? Once Sherlock had retreated up the stairs to their flat, John answered his phone. "What is it, Greg?"

_"Have you told him yet?"_ Lestrade's voice was low and oh-so-serious, and it was making him very anxious, indeed. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Have I told him what?"

_"Don't play dumb with me, John. You know damn well what I'm referring to."_

"Christ, Greg, _no_, I haven't told him and for good reason," John hissed, suddenly feeling very angry at Lestrade for bringing this up now when he had been in such a good mood before, now that all this business with the press was mostly behind them.

_"John—"_

"He can't know. He _can't_. It… it would destroy him."

_"But it's alright for him to borderline do that to you, is it?"_

John didn't know how to respond. He heard the D.I. inhale slowly and let it out in a slightly exasperated sigh on the other end of the line, and his jaw tightened as he mentally prepared for whatever the man wanted to say to him next.

_"Look… I'm not going to force you to tell him, and I'm not going to say anything to him either. I almost did the day he came to see me—the day he came back—but I stopped myself because I knew it wasn't my place to say anything. In all honesty, I think it's wrong to keep it from him, especially if you two are together now."_

"How did you—?"

_"I'm not blind, John. Please, just take this as some advice from a concerned friend if you won't take it from me as a professional D.I. I care about you two a great deal, and if he finds out from anyone other than you, things could get nasty."_

"Well as long as you keep your mouth shut, he won't have to find out at all. Goodbye, Greg. I have things I need to do." He really didn't, but he did not want to have this conversation anymore. It made him feel vulnerable; exposed; raw. Without giving Greg a chance to respond, he ended the call. Taking a few slow, calming breaths, he finally made his way inside and shut the door behind him.

With any luck, his worries hadn't followed him in.


	5. The Distraction

**A/N: There is some naughty stuff in this chapter. ;) Enjoy, and as always, please read and review!**

* * *

The next few weeks passed by fairly quickly. The day that followed the press conference, Sherlock had taken on a small-but-interesting case from a client. It didn't exactly warrant a blog entry on John's part, but at the very least it seemed to keep Sherlock occupied and in good spirits. A bored Sherlock Holmes was a frightful thing, and John was glad he would be spared that particular torment for at least a few days while the case was in progress. Sherlock solved the case in its entirety by Thursday. After he delivered his findings to the client, John was thoroughly impressed by what he had discovered with so little to go on.

"Child's play," Sherlock had said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "The solution was exceedingly obvious, John."

After that, a few more cases had popped up in Sherlock's inbox and they were off again. They weren't all that exciting, generally—mostly regarding some manner of theft or the typical open-and-shut incident regarding a missing person who wasn't missing at all and merely didn't want to be found—but it gave Sherlock something to focus on, and that was a blessing. John's assistance wasn't needed for much of it, so he resumed regular shifts at the surgery, filling in shifts where he could for fellow doctors if they ever called out due to illness or other personal reasons. John sometimes wished a more interesting case would come up, like a political scandal that needed sorting out or even a murder (as terrible as that made him feel). His skill set hadn't been needed for Sherlock's recent cases, for the most part, so he soon found that _he _was the bored one for a change and not the detective.

Sherlock saw this one afternoon, and naturally he made it a point to mention it. He always had a habit of being so very blunt.

"If I didn't know better, John, I'd say you're itching for a new case just as badly as I am," he said calmly in that deep baritone, softly sliding his bow over the strings of his well-loved violin. There was a little grin twitching at the corner of his mouth.

John chuckled softly and glanced up from his laptop at the man, having been in the process of replying to a few emails from friends whom he hadn't seen in quite some time when Sherlock spoke. "I would be lying if I said I wasn't. Hell, I'm half hoping Mycroft will walk through that door with a big, fat file under his arm related to some big political crime he wants you to shed light on for him."

Sherlock scoffed at that. "Even I'm not that bored."

"Coming from you, that's really something." John sent the last email before shutting his laptop and setting it aside with a little sigh. "You don't have an experiment, either?"

"I finished the last one; haven't come up with another one just yet, so for the time being, I am stuck with nothing to do yet again." Sherlock was staring at him in a rather pointed manner, almost expectant. It was a look that John had only seen a few times over the past couple of weeks, and it brought a grin to his face. He leaned back into the sofa cushions in a manner that was distinctly inviting and even with the distance between them, he could clearly see Sherlock's pupils dilate.

"If you're so bored, then get your arse over here." He didn't normally flirt like this, but their time had been monopolized by other things over the past couple of days (Sherlock's by a case and John's by his job at the surgery) and they hadn't gotten a whole lot of time to themselves. Now that they were both free, John had a few ideas on what he would rather do than simply sit around and wait for another case to come up that he would hopefully be able to help with. Sherlock got the hint very quickly and stood up, walking over to the couch and moving to straddle John's thighs. He liked doing that for whatever reason. John assumed it was because he enjoyed the closeness and intimacy more than he felt comfortable saying, but no matter the reason, John liked it.

He smiled up at the detective and set his hands on Sherlock's thighs to keep him where he was as he leaned in and captured his lips in a slow kiss. Sherlock returned the kiss willingly, his full lips moving in sync with John's. Sherlock was developing quite a fondness for kissing, John was pleased to note. Several times over the past few days, when they each had a spare moment, they would engage in some rather heated snogging. It still hadn't gone beyond that phase, and John was completely fine with that. There was no need to rush anything; they had all the time in the world.

"John," Sherlock murmured against his lips, the sound of his breathy voice going right down to the doctor's groin. God, that voice… It did such sinful things to him, caressing not only his ears but also dancing across his skin like little static shocks and making him shiver. He knew very well that Sherlock knew exactly what his voice did to him, but that generally only made him talk _more_. He groaned softly against Sherlock's lips when he felt him shift slightly on top of him, bringing his hips closer and lightly rubbing against his crotch. He tensed, his prick already stirring with interest. There was no way in hell Sherlock couldn't feel it pressed against him: he was teasing him on purpose.

"Sherlock," he warned breathlessly, gripping his thighs a bit tighter with both hands so that his fingertips dug into the fabric of the detective's well-tailored trousers. "Don't." An embarrassing noise escaped him—almost a squeak but not quite—when one of Sherlock's hands slid between them to rub right between his legs.

"It's been over three weeks since that night, John. I don't want everything just yet, but… I want to do _something_." The look in his eyes was so earnest that John could do nothing but give Sherlock silent permission in the form of a little nod. His cheeks flushed as Sherlock started rubbing him in earnest through his jeans, soft little huffs of pleasure escaping into the continued kiss. This continued for several minutes before John grunted and rested a hand over Sherlock's, stopping its movement. Sherlock frowned at him.

"Alright, okay, look… I'll let you touch me, but these—" He gestured to his jeans, a sizable bulge visible where Sherlock's hand had just been rubbing. "—have to go. It's uncomfortable like this."

Sherlock immediately set to work unbuttoning and unzipping John's jeans, getting off of his lap onto to pull them down his legs along with his pants. His lower half now being completely bare to Sherlock's gaze, John knew his face must be bright red by now. He had never been so exposed in the detective's presence before, and it made him feel a little self-conscious. His cock wasn't any smaller than the average bloke's, and size didn't necessarily matter, but he couldn't help but shift uncomfortably on the sofa either way. Sherlock did something then that John had only fantasized about: he knelt on the floor between his legs and took his erection in-hand, stroking it slowly but firmly.

"Oh, God," he moaned, tipping his head back and shivering with bliss. "Sherlock, that's…"

The detective brushed the pad of his thumb over the head of John's cock at the beginning of every down-stroke, giving a slight twist of his palm at the top with every up-stroke. For someone who had only ever touched his own in this way (and that was a rare occurrence), he was doing a very good job at figuring out just what John liked. His surreal eyes flicked up toward John's face for a few moments, taking in everything he saw there. The doctor's face was flushed a deep shade of pink; his breathing was heavy and somewhat laborious.

_Blushing: caused by a dilation of the capillaries near the surface of one's skin and therefore allowing more blood to flow to those areas. Breathing heavily: the heart-rate has increased due to sexual arousal and is necessitating a greater oxygen intake._

Sherlock was cataloguing John's reactions very carefully, storing the information away in his mind palace for use at a later date. His eyes focused on John's prick once more, watching as he tugged the foreskin back slightly to show the glans and revealing a drop of pre-cum shining at the tip. He licked his lips and found himself wondering what it would taste like. He decided to find out. When John's head was tipped back again and he couldn't see what Sherlock was doing, the detective ducked his head and pressed his tongue lightly against the tip of his cock.

John jumped at the sharp and sudden spike of pleasure.

"Sherlock! W-what are you…?" John gasped, eyes wide as he looked down at the man. He hadn't expected anything like that to happen at all, and now that it had, he wanted more. What would that Cupid's-bow look like wrapped obscenely around the head of his cock? The aforementioned organ gave a particularly insistent throb at that thought process. "Nngh…" Sherlock pulled back, balancing the taste of John's pre-cum on his tongue for a few moments.

_Surprisingly sweet, but not overly so… Well, he did eat an apple for breakfast this morning, so that might have something to do with it._

"Do you want me to stop?" Sherlock asked with a surprising amount of calm, his own cheeks flushed and his lips moist from when he had licked them. He was quite a sight, and the fact that his hot breath was washing over John's sensitive glans was not helping in the least.

"A-ah, oh God, no… but _Jesus_, Sherlock, you have to warn me next time you want to do that," John breathed with a slight laugh. "And here I thought you were just going to give me a hand with this."

Sherlock cracked a small grin at the pun. "I am; just not literally. You stare at my mouth often enough, John, so I thought this method would be more satisfactory for you." He flicked his tongue over the glans once more before taking the tip slowly into his mouth and applying the slightest bit of suction. As the minutes passed, he gradually took more of John's erection into his mouth, bobbing his head back and forth and occasionally pulling away to tease the frenulum with the tip of his tongue. Every time he did this, John would utter the sweetest of moans that would go straight down to his cock, and he would groan quietly around him in response. His own trousers were starting to feel tighter than usual around his groin thanks to the erection he was now sporting and he brought his free hand—the one not supporting the base of John's cock—down to lightly palm himself through the black fabric, his muscles going taut at the contact.

At some point, John's fingers found their way into Sherlock's hair and grabbed at it, occasionally tugging at the soft, curly strands when the detective did something particularly amazing with his tongue. For someone who had never done this before, Sherlock was marvelous at it, and John truly hoped it would become a regular occurrence. Glancing down, he noticed Sherlock rubbing himself through his trousers and smiled slightly at the sight. Maybe when Sherlock was finished with him, he would let John return the favor. At a particularly hard suck, John groaned loudly and arched his hips forward slightly, his breathing becoming heavier and a bit more erratic.

"S-Sherlock… ahhh… So close… I-I can't… If you keep that up, y-you're going to get a mouthful…"

Sherlock didn't pull away. In fact, he took John in as deeply as possible without gagging, sucking harder and dragging his tongue up the vein on the underside of the heavy shaft each time he pulled back. He lightly grazed the shaft with his teeth on the way back down, not pressing hard enough to cause any damage; only enough for John to feel them.

That did it. John gripped Sherlock's hair tighter and cried out as he came, shuddering as he emptied himself down the detective's throat. Even when his orgasm had ended, he continued lightly shaking on the sofa for another couple of minutes, panting heavily and slowly loosening his grip on the dark-brown strands under his hands. Sherlock moved his head away and slipped his mouth off of John with an obscene, wet noise, swallowing a few more times to make sure he got everything. Semen had a very odd consistency to it that he wasn't overly fond of just yet, but he was sure he would get used to it in time. He rested his forehead against John's thigh, panting softly himself as he shifted his hips.

He was still very hard, and his trousers felt so tight now that it almost hurt. Thankfully, John was not a selfish lover by any means. He smiled down at Sherlock and took a few more moments to catch his breath before speaking: "Your turn."

Sherlock lifted his head to look at him, frowning. "You don't have to return the favor, John. You're not obligated to do so; I can handle it myself."

"Obligated…? Sherlock, I know I don't have to, but I _want_ to. Now, come on. Get up here." He got up and pulled his pants and trousers back up, his legs still feeling a little shaky after what had to be one of the most intense orgasms he had ever experienced. He waited until Sherlock was on the sofa before kneeling down on the floor between his long legs and setting about removing his trousers. He slid them down to his knees along with his pants and was stunned by the sight of his naked cock. It was a bit longer than his, but not quite as thick, and it was _perfect_.

"You're staring." Sherlock's voice was matter-of-fact and a tad smug, and sure enough, there was a little smirk on his face when John looked up at him. He chuckled and lightly smacked Sherlock on the thigh.

"Stop being such a cheeky bastard; you're ruining my concentration," he chided playfully. The doctor wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's shaft and gave it a few experimental tugs before leaning in and taking the tip into his mouth, mimicking to the best of his ability what Sherlock had done to him. If the low moan was anything to go by, John assumed he was doing well in that regard. He slid his mouth further down Sherlock's cock as he got more comfortable doing so, dipping his tongue past the foreskin occasionally to play with the tip of the glans and wondering if Sherlock was as sensitive there as he was.

As it turned out, Sherlock was _twice_ as sensitive.

With the lightest touch of John's tongue on his glans, Sherlock's hips bucked forward and he cried out, his eyes wide and his hands moving to scrabble at John's shoulders. That sound would be enough to fuel John's dreams for weeks to come, he was fairly certain. The doctor forged on, repeating the movement of his tongue on the tip of Sherlock's cock; the detective _whimpered_.

"J-John, wait… Stop," Sherlock gasped, resting a hand on John's head and trying to push him away.

John did as requested, pulling away and looking up at Sherlock with a concerned frown. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Sherlock murmured huskily, panting. "It's just… too much right now. It's a little overwhelming."

John's heart sunk, but he did as Sherlock asked and moved to sit beside him on the couch as opposed to kneeling on the floor in front of him. He could tell that Sherlock was embarrassed, and his expression softened as he wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

"Sherlock, don't worry about it. You don't have to force yourself," John reassured him.

"It's not that; I want you to do it. It's just… I've never done it before."

"I know. The sensations are unfamiliar to you, and that makes you particularly sensitive to touch. We can try this again at a later date, but if you want, I can just use my hand for now. That should be okay, right?"

Sherlock swallowed heavily and nodded, blushing as he turned his head to look at John. He smiled faintly. "Yes… That should be fine." John took hold of Sherlock's prick a few moments later, and the detective bit his lip softly as he started pumping it. He had masturbated before, but somehow it felt different when John did it. It felt _better_. He panted quietly at the numerous sensations overwhelming his senses, hips sliding forward a bit on the couch to give John more room.

"Good?" John inquired with a shy smile, twisting his palm a bit over the head before sliding it back down. The shiver that went through Sherlock at that was so erotic, John was certain he would already be hard again himself if he were fifteen years younger.

"Y-yes…" Sherlock tipped his head back and groaned, eyes fluttering closed. He was already so close. He could feel the muscles in his abdomen tightening, a slow, borderline-uncomfortable heat coiling inside him. A minute later, with a cry of John's name, Sherlock let go and spilled all over the doctor's hand, his hips jerking a bit as he rode out his orgasm. For a short while after that, his mind was uncomfortably yet blissfully quiet. It was a tad disconcerting to him, since his brain was constantly buzzing day in and day out. He was vaguely aware of John getting up to grab a tissue, cleaning his essence from his hand before nonchalantly tossing it into the waste basket near the sofa.

John sat down beside him once more and smiled, leaning in to press a little kiss against the corner of his mouth.

"Feeling better?" he asked hopefully.

Clearing his throat once he thought he was capable of coherent speech once more, Sherlock nodded, an almost drowsy sort of smile on his face.

"Much better, yes. Thank you, John. That was… good," he finished lamely, cheekbones still stained pink as he lifted his hips to pull his pants and trousers back up. John followed suit.

"I don't know about you," John began, "but I think that was a very effective way of getting rid of boredom." He knew Sherlock was still itching for a new case, but at least for the moment, John couldn't care less about cases. If he could lounge about their flat in a daze after having such a mind-blowing experience with Sherlock on the sofa, he would be quite happy.

The two men jumped slightly at the sound of Sherlock's phone ringing a few minutes later and John watched as the detective moved to answer it. The ringtone was undoubtedly Lestrade's, which meant that Sherlock may very well be getting a new case. He could only hear Sherlock's end of the conversation, but if the nearly visible excitement thrumming through the detective's veins was anything to go by, Lestrade had just given him some very interesting details about a crime scene. Perhaps his skills of deduction were rubbing off on him after all.

Sherlock hung up after getting all the information he needed to find the crime scene and he grabbed his coat and scarf, putting them on.

"What did Lestrade want, then?" John questioned, hoping for some details on where they would be going.

"Case," Sherlock answered vaguely, wrapping his scarf warmly around his pale throat.

Accepting that that was all Sherlock intended to tell him at the moment, John got up and put his jacket on before eagerly following the taller man out the door. He only hoped he was able to focus on the case at hand without his mind drifting constantly to memories of what Sherlock had sounded like during orgasm.

Those sounds and images would surely bless his dreams for days to come.


	6. The Secret

**A/N: Please read and review! **

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The scene was bloody, but not bloodier than some of the others Sherlock had brought him to in the past. The young man's body was slumped on his side against the bedroom wall, his eyes wide and un-seeing. Dark red blood was crusted on one side of his head, the source being an obvious bullet hole to the right temple. Resting next to him was a handgun, presumably missing the bullet that had torn through the victim's skull.

There was another victim at the scene. It was a pretty brunette woman around the same age as the dead man. She was sprawled across the bed like a broken doll, her hair spread across the bloody pillows and sticking to them. It was grisly, and John felt terrible looking at her pretty face that was now being marred with red from the bullet wound in the center of her forehead. At first glance, it seemed to be a murder-suicide, but if that was the case, then why would Lestrade need Sherlock's assistance?

"The victims are Jackie Davis and Steven Baxter, both twenty-five years of age," Lestrade began, hands clasped behind his back as he frowned at the corpses then at Sherlock. "Apparent murder-suicide." He hesitated a bit at that, and it did not escape Sherlock's notice.

"At first glance, it does look like one," he agreed, "but you don't believe that is the case, do you?"

"I'm not sure what to think. According to the woman who found them like this—Baxter's sister—he and Davis had been quite happy over the past few months since they started getting serious. No abuse to speak of; not even of the verbal kind. But I've seen murder-suicides like this before, ones with no apparent cause." Lestrade looked very tired as he spoke, as though he had hardly gotten any sleep the night before. Then again, maybe he hadn't.

"Go ahead and have a look, guys. I'm going to need anything you can give me to put this to rest."

The usual serious mask he wore at crime scenes on his face, Sherlock got to work. The first thing he did was to put on a pair of latex gloves so as not to contaminate any evidence, knowing Lestrade would be very displeased if he did. He knelt beside the young man's body then, taking out his little magnifying glass and examining every little detail. He focused for quite some time on the bullet wound in the side of his head, and then he went right to looking at the gun on the floor. He picked it up and opened it to take note of the number of bullets.

"Two bullets were fired from this gun," he said calmly.

"Well, it's a murder-suicide with two victims," came Anderson's drawling voice, sending thrills of annoyance through Sherlock's body. "Of course there were two bullets fired."

"You see but you do not observe, as always," Sherlock stated snappishly, narrowing his eyes at Anderson before setting the gun down where it was found. "But since you obviously think you know what you're talking about, indulge me: how can there be only two empty shell casings when three bullets were fired in total?"

"_Three_ bullets?" Lestrade sounded surprised; Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved to the dead woman next, grabbing her by the shoulder and carefully rolling her over a bit onto her side. The back of her shirt was saturated with blood, another bullet hole under her shoulder-blade.

"Head wounds bleed a lot, but I could tell from the way the blood was spread across the sheet underneath her that it hadn't dripped down from the exit wound at the back of her head. The pillow is completely saturated with blood from the head but beyond the pillow, the only other blood is that from the bullet wound in her back. The blood from her head hadn't been able to seep that far down."

Anderson said nothing, merely glaring at Sherlock for a few moments before shaking his head, backing off to let Lestrade deal with him. John smirked a bit at that, but soon looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"So, how are there three bullets and only two empty shell casings?" John questioned, trying to lead Sherlock into a deeper explanation that the ordinary people on-scene could understand.

"This is where it gets interesting." Sherlock smirked and pointed at the male victim. "John, take a look at the bullet wound in that man's head. Tell me what's wrong with this picture."

John sighed and did just that, kneeling next to the body and closely examining the bullet wound. He frowned, narrowing his eyes at the wound and then glancing down at the supposed murder-suicide weapon.

"If this man did commit suicide, a high-caliber weapon like this would have left much more damage at close range, but the entry is very clean. There should be an exit wound from a weapon like this, but there isn't one."

"Which means…?" Sherlock pressed, smiling proudly at the doctor.

"This gun couldn't have been used to make the wound."

"Very good, John." John's chest puffed out with pride and he smiled, glancing up at Lestrade, who also seemed very impressed as well as a tad confused.

"So where did the two bullets missing from that gun end up?" he wondered aloud, looking from one corpse to the other. "They obviously had to end up _somewhere_."

"Yes, obviously. We know that at least one of the bullets couldn't be in either of the victims, but the second bullet killed the woman."

When Sherlock was met with blank-but-amazed expression from everyone in the room, the detective sighed heavily. "Why do you always have to be so vacant, honestly…? This case is quite obviously a double-murder made to _look_ like a murder-suicide. The murderer came into the house—presumably invited, as there was no sign of a break-in, from what I saw on the way in—and drew a gun on the woman. She panicked and ran to the bedroom, thinking her boyfriend might be able to protect her." Sherlock made his way out into the hallway just outside of the bedroom, gesturing to a small table that was slightly askew and on which a picture frame had fallen over.

"While she was running from her attacker, he shot at her and, in a panic, she ran into this table and knocked the photo over in doing so before finally entering the bedroom. Having heard the gunshot, her boyfriend grabbed his gun from that drawer right under the sink in the bathroom and ran out to defend her, firing a shot at the assailant and missing because he had mere seconds to react."

"How do you know he shot at the murderer?" John asked, amazed because upon looking around him, he couldn't see any sign of a shot being fired anywhere but at the two victims. Sherlock walked past John and over to the dresser near the bedroom door. He pushed it further down the wall, gesturing to the place where the stray bullet had struck the wall.

"How could you tell?" Lestrade asked with a subtle grin on his face.

"The carpet," Sherlock stated simply. "There is a flattened section in the carpet here where the dresser was supposed to be. I'm frankly appalled that no one else took note of that."

"Alright, don't rub it in," John scolded lightly. "There's more, I take it?"

"Yes." Immediately, Sherlock was back in deduction mode. "The woman's attacker was furious when he was fired at and in the split second that the woman's boyfriend moved toward her to make sure she was okay, the shooter took his chance and fired. The bullet struck him in the temple and he fell; he dropped his weapon, and he was no doubt dead by the time he hit the floor.

"The killer then got the brilliant idea of possibly being able to avoid suspicion by making the killing look like a murder-suicide, so he put his own gun away and grabbed the victim's, shooting the girlfriend in the head and then quickly putting the gun back where he found it once the deed was done."

"The only prints on the gun were the victim's," Anderson stated irritably, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. "So at the very least, the murderer was smart enough to wear gloves."

"But he obviously wasn't smart enough to realize that not all handguns are exactly the same," John interjected thoughtfully. "Different caliber guns use different types of bullets. If he knew he shot each of them with his own gun…"

"But he didn't." Sherlock sounded smug as he spoke, which made John more than a little frustrated.

"What do you mean, he didn't? He shot the girl once in the back with his own weapon!"

"Maybe he didn't realize he hit her. Look at the color of her shirt, John: crimson. If she was shot, the blood would not be visible from the killer's vantage point while in the room."

"She would have known if she'd been shot, Sherlock."

"John, you're a doctor. You, of all people, must know there are instances where that isn't the case."

John thought a moment before realizing what Sherlock meant by that. "Oh, right. There have been reports of people having so much adrenaline pumping through them under stress that they do not feel the pain right away. She probably didn't even realize she'd been shot. Being in shock wouldn't have helped, either."

"Exactly. So, with this information, I believe it is very likely that the killer did not know a whole lot about guns. He believed that the bullet embedded in this man's skull that had come from his own gun was exactly the same as the bullet he killed the woman with from her boyfriend's gun. The mistake of an amateur."

"Brilliant," John breathed. He would forever be in awe of how much more Sherlock was capable of noticing than the average person.

"Right," Lestrade started, "so we're looking for a man… A man?"

"That is the statistically more likely solution so yes, I believe so."

"Right, okay. And you said he had to have been invited in since there was no sign of forced entry, which means the woman at least knew the killer."

"Talk to the people most likely to be in their inner circle: friends, family and coworkers," Sherlock instructed, removing his latex gloves and tossing them into a nearby wastebasket. "Someone must know something about who might want them dead."

"I'll look into it. As soon as I find out anything, I'll let you know. You two can go now if you want; we can take it from here."

With that, Sherlock and John made their way toward the front door so they could leave, but Sherlock was stopped halfway there by Sergeant Donovan. Realizing Sherlock was no longer walking, John paused and looked over his shoulder at him, flashing Sally with a little smile.

"Everything okay, Sally?" he asked. Sally smiled at him and nodded.

"Yeah, everything's fine. There's just something I need to talk to Sherlock about for a minute. I won't keep him long, I promise."

"Okay. Well, uh… I'll meet you outside, Sherlock." Still seeming a little confused by Sally's reason for stopping Sherlock, John made his way out of the house and left the two of them alone in the entryway. The second John was out of earshot, Sally turned on Sherlock with an angry look on her face.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Well I don't know, Sally, but I'm sure you're going to tell me," Sherlock responded coolly.

"I've seen the way he's been looking at you ever since you came back, Sherlock. Even a complete idiot would be able to tell that you two are shagging."

"A very accurate statement, I would say," Sherlock said dryly with a tiny smirk.

Ignoring Sherlock's comment, Sally continued. "When you left, he was devastated. _Devastated_. And do you know who was there for him when you weren't?"

"Lestrade?"

"And me, Sherlock. _Me_. Both of us had to look after him for the first few months after your 'death' to make sure he didn't do anything stupid. There was the span of a few months where he took to drinking himself practically to death, but do you know what he did three months after you jumped?"

Sherlock felt a sick feeling of dread roiling in his gut when Sally asked him such a thing and he swallowed heavily, giving a minute shake of his head.

"He went up to the roof of Bart's and stood on the ledge, right where you jumped from. He was going to jump, Sherlock. He was going to _kill himself_ because of you." Sally's voice was sharp as ice and full of venom, but it was the words themselves that hurt most of all.

_The day I came back, when I went to see Lestrade and he stopped himself from saying something… Is this what he was keeping from me?_

He didn't know what to say.

"Molly saw him going up to the roof and gave Lestrade a call. Thankfully, we were both able to talk him down from the roof, but he was so _broken_, Sherlock. Do you know what he said to me after we managed to get him down?"

"No…"

"He said 'I just wanted to see Sherlock again.' His reason for wanting to jump off a bloody roof was that he wanted to see _you_ again, you bloody stupid _wanker_," Sally hissed. She jabbed a finger into Sherlock's chest, glaring at him furiously. "I swear to God, Sherlock, if you _ever_ do anything to hurt him again—"

"I won't." Sherlock's voice was strong and steady; determined. "I know I hurt him… and I've already told him several times that I wish there had been another way to protect him. But there _wasn't_. What's done is done, and I have every intention of putting it behind us and starting over. I'm back now, and we're both doing well. That being said, _back off_."

The sound of Lestrade calling Sally's name from the bedroom temporarily tore the police sergeant's attention away from the detective and she shook her head, crossing her arms.

"Don't you dare forget what I said." The woman turned and headed back down the hall to the bedroom to assist Lestrade with gathering all of the evidence they could from the crime scene.

Sherlock finally made his way out of the house, an uncomfortable queasiness in his stomach as he approached John. He saw the easygoing smile on his face now, and all he could think about was what Sally had just told him. He climbed into a taxi with him to return to Baker Street and all he could picture was John up on that roof, as clearly as if he had actually been standing there looking up at him.

_"I just wanted to see Sherlock again…"_

The phrase repeated itself in John's voice over and over again in his mind and even though he was good at masking his emotions even now, this new development was devastating.

What if Lestrade and Sally hadn't gotten to him on time? Would Mycroft have told him about John taking his own life, or would he let him find out on his own upon returning to 221B only to find it vacant?

_Mycroft._

The name made him indescribably angry. There was no way Mycroft hadn't known about everything he had just learned, yet he had deliberately kept him in the dark. His hands clenched into fists on his lap in the taxi, brow furrowed with silent, seething rage.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock snapped out of his angry haze almost immediately and turned his head slightly to look at John, trying to seem as calm as he could so as not to worry him. John already did way too much of that. John gave him an uncertain smile, setting a hand on his knee and kneading it softly with his fingertips as he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the detective's full lips.

"I love you. You know that, right?"

Sherlock's expression softened. "Yes."

Even when his response made John relax and turn his gaze back out the window, one thought kept tearing at him: _If you love me, then why did I have to hear all of that from Sergeant Donovan?_


	7. The Interrogation

**A/N: I'm really sorry it took me so long to update this... I got a new and very demanding job back in February so any free time I've had has been spent mostly relaxing. I apologize in advance for how short this chapter is: I had a bit of writer's block for most of it, and where it ends seemed like an appropriate way to end the chapter. There will probably be another chapter after this one and then possibly a short epilogue, so keep an eye out for those. I'll try to update a little more quickly this time, but no promises.**

**As always, I hope you enjoy it, and please feel free to read and review!**

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Sherlock and John spent the next several days helping the Yard track down the killer of Jackie Davis and Steven Baxter, and the identity of the killer proved to be a shock to everyone on the case. The murderer was Brian Cummings, a friend of Jackie's. Apparently, the two had gone out for a drink at one of her favorite pubs, as friends who hadn't seen each other in a while. After a couple of drinks, Cummings confessed his long-standing feelings for her and tried making a pass at her. Davis, having a boyfriend, told him that although she was flattered by his interest in her, she was no longer single and therefore could not be with him.

As okay with it as Cummings had seemed on the outside, on the inside he was in turmoil. Two days later, he showed up at her home seemingly for a social call and pulled a gun on her: a gun he had taken from his father without permission, thinking its disappearance would not be noticed. He had been sorely mistaken. Within twenty-four hours of the story of the case getting out in the media, Cummings's father contacted the Yard and suggested they bring his son in for questioning, even though he hoped his son wasn't the killer they were looking for.

Faced with both Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes, the young man's guilt was brought to light almost immediately during the interrogation thanks to Sherlock's nearly inhuman skills of observation, and he was taken into custody. The case was closed.

John should have been happy about the resolution of the case, but other things were getting in the way of that sense of relief.

Since their day at the crime scene, Sherlock had been more distant with him. He barely spoke to him at all and when he did, it was only about various aspects of the case that he was still trying to piece together into a larger picture. Whenever he would lean in for a kiss, Sherlock would let the kiss happen but wouldn't really reciprocate it. The heated intimacy they had shared on the sofa before this latest case was all but gone, and John was at a loss as to why. What had he done to make Sherlock act this way? Was it even something he had done, or was it just Sherlock being, well, _Sherlock_?

Eventually, he was able to muster up the courage to say something about it.

"Right, let's hear it then," he said out of the blue while Sherlock was in the middle of his newest experiment at the kitchen table, walking up to him and crossing his arms.

Sherlock flicked his gaze toward him, eyebrow arched.

"Hear what?" he questioned evenly.

"You've been shutting me out since that last case began, Sherlock. You've barely said a word to me, you don't kiss me anymore… Hell, I'm lucky if you even look at me!" John's voice got louder as he continued and when he realized that was occurring, he stopped and took a deep breath before continuing at a lower, more neutral volume.

"I just… I just want to know what I did or said to make you act this way. Whatever it was, I… I'm sorry."

Sherlock gazed at John silently for a minute, frowning. John looked so crestfallen at the prospect of Sherlock being angry with him, and the kicked-puppy look in his eyes was enough to make the detective's chest feel tight. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he revealed the reason for his being so distant.

"You almost leapt off the roof of Bart's during my absence… and you didn't think to tell me?"

The color drained from John's face and he pressed his lips into a tight line, swallowing heavily. He looked like he was going to be sick. John remained silent for quite some time, his eyes filling with tears. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before he was finally able to find his voice.

"It's not important," he said, a slight tremor in his voice. "That's why I didn't tell you. I am still here, so… why bother bringing it up?"

"That isn't the point," Sherlock explained coolly, his own eyes shiny with moisture as he stared John down. "The point is, I told you everything — _everything_ — about what I was up to over the past three years while I was away from here, but you chose to keep secrets when you should have just been honest with me!" Sherlock clenched his hands into fists, frustrated with John for not understanding why he was so angry about the secret he had kept from him.

"Just answer me this, John: _Why?_"

"Why didn't I do it?" John sighed and sat down on the sofa, hunching over and scrubbing his hands over his face for a moment to collect his thoughts. "Lestrade and Sally both tried talking to me, but what Lestrade said is what convinced me. H-he said… He said that killing myself wasn't something you would have wanted or condoned because you wouldn't want me to give up so easily; because you would want me to continue living for the both of us."

"Well, he was right about that at least… but that's not what I meant. I meant, why did you want to do it in the first place?"

John was silent for a long time, long enough that Sherlock believed he might not even answer him. Then, just as Sherlock was about to ask him again, John spoke. His voice sounded rough; tired.

"I tried, Sherlock. After the funeral, I tried picking up all the pieces your death scattered me into. I started taking more shifts at the surgery, I went out with friends more, I started going to therapy again to try coping with my grief. In spite of all that, I felt hollow. Without you around, I thought, 'What's the point of going on?' almost every single day. After you jumped that day, Sherlock, all of the color and purpose just seemed to drain out of everything."

John's voice caught for a moment and he took a minute's pause, taking in deep, ragged breaths in an attempt to calm himself. When he was certain he could, he continued.

"After a while, I realized that whatever it was that I was doing, it wasn't living. An important part of me died the day of your funeral when I watched them lower that casket into your grave. The weird state of existence I was in… It couldn't be called _life_. It isn't life without you in it, Sherlock."

John had begun to weep at some point during his little speech, the tears coming fast and hot and dropping from his cheeks to leave little dark spots on his jeans. He brought his hands up to cover his face, gritting his teeth as his shoulders started shaking with the effort it took to keep his tears under control. Several minutes passed, and Sherlock still had not said a word. He really had not wanted Sherlock to find out just how tough those three years had been on him. Thinking about his almost-suicide now, he felt so very ashamed…

If he felt this way, what must Sherlock think?

John heard the light rustle of clothing from across the room and it was only a few moments more before he felt Sherlock's strong arms around him. He gasped softly, his eyes shimmering as Sherlock held him even tighter. The detective was hiding his face against the doctor's neck, and John could feel the telltale wetness of tears sliding down his nape. He wrapped his arms firmly around Sherlock and his fingers clutched at the back of his shirt, a little whimper shaking its way out of him.

The two remained like that for quite some time, holding onto each other with tears streaming silently down their cheeks. No words were needed: the desperation with which they clung to each other spoke volumes. John didn't know how much time had passed before Sherlock finally loosened his grip on him and pulled back enough to make eye contact. The detective's eyes were red and a bit puffy from crying, presumably just like his own. John smiled a bit at him, and he smiled back.

It seemed to John that they were both being given a second chance at life now that they were together again… and he couldn't wait to see where that long, winding road would take them next.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Keep an eye out for future updates.**


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